Join the weirdos
by Shinora1996
Summary: It's that time of year again: Eurovision Song Contest '14. Denmark and Netherlands keep up their tradition of making bets about the final results, Which can't end well. Somewhat reluctant to be there is Canada as moral support for his Dutch boyfriend. After his experience of the finals last year, he's biting his nails before the Contest has even started. Two-shot. Some NedCan
1. Chapter 1

This is only the intro of this two-shot. The next chapter will be only about the finals and what happens afterwards.

Read at own risk. Please make sure not to fall asleep.

~o~o~

_Tuesday, May 6th 2014, Copenhagen, Denmark._

"So what do you think?" Denmark asked. He turned around at his good friend Netherlands to see his reaction. The Dutchman nodded. They were in the skybox meant for the countries, far above the stage and where the audience was to be that same evening. It was well hidden from the people and cameras, and yet they had a perfect view on the stage from behind the window.  
Yes, it was that time of year again: The Eurovision Song Contest. After winning last year, it was Denmark's turn to organise it, and he hadn't held back.

Netherlands looked down at the stage through the glass, which was actually a big one-way mirror. That was where it would happen tonight. The first one of two semi-finals for the Contest. There was no one to be seen yet, except for a few guys setting up the cameras and doing sound- and lighting checks. There were still many hours to go before the actual event after all.

The stage itself was to be called subtly glamorous and quite futuristic. Nothing ridiculously pompous, but still very outstanding with lighting of all sorts to spare. The green room was, instead of what you'd expect of a green room, actually a stage itself.  
"I like it." He nodded again.

"Cool, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. Nervous, old friend?"

"No, I'm never nervous! Haha! What are you taking me for, Abel?"

Netherlands chuckled. "Calm your man-tits, Mat. Your guy's got a good chance in the finals. He's cool, and the song's pretty damn funny."

"I guess. I've heard Sve complain about it getting stuck in his head."

"I wish I could say that about my song." Netherlands said miserably.

"It's so sensitive." Denmark teased, sniggering right after.

"It's fucking boring."

"Still better than the fairground organ."

Netherlands moaned with all misery he had. "Don't even start. The lyrics were right, though. That fucking song will be stuck in your head forever. Yuch."

"Or the woman with a thousand chickens on her head."

"Stop it."

"What about old guys in glittery suits?"

"One more of those reminders, and I'm gonna projectile-vomit all over the place." Netherlands deadpanned.

"Don't!" Denmark shrieked. "I can't put entire Europe in this room tonight if there's puke everywhere!"

Netherlands chuckled at his friend's panic. "It's as usual again: The good and weird songs will make the finals and my song is a chanceless pile of wank. So I guess this will be the first of another nine years of me not making the finals."

"Wanna put a bet on that?" Denmark asked, following their tradition of making bets about the contest. Just to make it more interesting. And much to the dismay of many other European countries.

"What about we do two? My song not making the final this year for one, and the eight years after that as the second one."

"What's your call for the winner?"

"Hungary or you."

"Nah. I'm putting my money on Ukraine or Isreal."

"We're not even betting for money. We never do."

"Because you're a cheapskate. Fine. My decency then."

"Deal. And the loser...What does the loser do?"

"Erm...we've done streaking." Denmark recalled from the previous year.

"And snogging." Netherlands shivered at the memory of that same year.

"And drinking with Arthur, Francis, Gilbert, Kiku, Romano and Antonio." Denmark was still surprised he didn't get raped that night.

"And eating Arthur's food."

"And waxing your legs."

"And your balls!" Netherlands retorted.

"And-I think it's time to stop now."

"Whut?"

Denmark now looked a bit uneasy and nudged. Netherlands looked back over his shoulder, right into the most lovely pair of lavender eyes. A pair of slightly mentally scarred looking eyes. "Oh, hi Matty. How long have you been standing there?"

"Too long." Canada replied, still looking just as mentally scarred. "You're quite good at leaving doors open."

Netherlands chuckled a bit uneasy. "I thought you were only going to be here for the finals?"

"I got here a little earlier because I wanted to see you." Canada said as though he didn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "But I'm starting to believe that was a bit of a mistake."

"No, it wasn't." Netherlands said very quickly and bear-hugged his boyfriend around the shoulders immediately. He rested his chin on top of his head, just because he could.

Denmark snorted at the sight of it. "You two look like a totem pole."

"Shuddup, Mat. So, about the bet." Netherlands went back to their conversation from seconds ago.

"We've got ourselves a good one this time."

"The one about the nine years is on too?"

"Yup."

"Good. And the loser?"

"I've got something." Denmark flashed a big fat grin and mouthed three words in Danish. Something that wasn't hard to understand for someone speaking a somewhat similar language, but leaving the Canadian none the wiser.

Netherlands laughed. "Deal." He said. The two spiky-haired friends both spat on their palm and shook hands. The bets for this year were on.

Much to Canada's dismay. What had those two idiots gotten themselves into this time? This was only the second time he was to attend the Contest as a guest, but since he had heard the stories and seen the snogging and streaking last year, he was terribly worried about the outcome of this.

And he had all reason to be.

~o~o~

Muhahaha! Someone will get a massive trauma. Who? I don't know yet. ;) Probably half the Danish population. And everyone who read this. Sorry!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Precede at own risk. I am not responsible for any mental damage after reading this. Rating changed because of some suggestive talk and Netherlands and Denmark being...Netherlands and Denmark. **

~o~o~o~

Only minutes before the opening of the Grand Finale, all the attending countries gathered at the window to look down at the stage.  
He hadn't been to either of the Semi-Finals, but Canada was there tonight to watch the Grand Final. He'd been there the previous year in Malmö, so this time he was somewhat mentally prepared for the ridiculous bet Denmark and Netherlands had made. The worst thing was that the latter had already lost half the bet. That being that the Common Linnets wouldn't be making it to the finals. And that didn't quite do his mood much good.

"You should stop betting your act doesn't make the finals." Denmark teased a grumbling Netherlands. "That never ends well for you, does it?"

"Put a sock in it, will you?"

"I mean, last time you said that, you ended up with my tongue in your mouth."

"Shut it."

"Not to mention what's on your agenda for tomorrow now."

"Shut up, Køhler!" He snapped.

Denmark laughed only harder, especially when his good friend head-desked onto the window sill in utter misery.

Canada didn't quite know whether to comfort his spiky-haired boyfriend or smack him upside the head for making stupid bets. Again. Tradition or not, making bets with Denmark was never a good idea. Especially not when he was the one to set the rules, and you had a special talent for losing bets.

While Netherlands was grumbling in utter misery with his head on the window sill, Denmark started fooling around with some measuring tape. He carefully took the measurements from the base of his friend's neck to his waist. Then he took the width of his shoulders, frowned and muttered something along the lines of 'show-off', and wrote it down on a notepad. It was only when he wrapped the tape around his chest that Netherlands seemed to notice anything.  
"What the fuck are you doing?" He asked.

"I want to make sure your uniform it going to fit you." Denmark sniggered.

"I hope you step on a lego." Netherlands deadpanned.

Denmark abruptly stopped what he was doing. "That is so harsh! How can you say something like that?"

"Twice."

"That is cruel, man."

Luckily, there wasn't much time for an argument. The show was starting already. And how. After seeing some really freaky things the previous year (those being a giant, a man in a glass box and a guy singing about his shoes), Canada was sure he'd seen enough. He was proven wrong immediately at the first song.

"That's a..." He stuttered.

"Man in a hamster wheel, yes."

"Why?"

"Because crack."

"You don't honestly think he's done crack."

"He looks like he's done crack."

"Or lost a bet." Denmark added. "Something you will tonight."

"Forget it, Mat."

"That's what you said last year, and you know what happened."

"Yeah. You got naked. And nearly arrested."

"And you got, what did you call that again?"

"Shut up. This is your only hopeful for tonight, so I've got a better chance than you."

They basically bickered in a way that would make Britain and France jealous, and Canada left to get a drink and join the Nordics.

"Giving you a tough time?" Iceland asked.

"Nah. Just a headache. Does any of you know what their bet is this year?"

"Sorry. I don't know. You'd say that they'd run out of things to make each other do by now." Finland said.

"I wish."

Their attention was suddenly drawn when they heard Denmark shouting some commands, like he was riding a horse. This wasn't exactly the case, but he was getting a piggy-back ride from a rather unwilling Netherlands.

"Ey, guys! What are you up to?" He asked enthusiastically. "I'm just trying out my new horse-Whah!" And said 'horse' apparently had enough as he threw him off his back.

"I'm not your horse. Fuck off."

As though he were a magnet, Netherlands clung to his glassed boyfriend again like he always did: Arms around his shoulders, chin resting on top of his head. The first act was over, and had cleared the stage for something that seemed a bit similar to another annoyingly catchy song that was guaranteed to get stuck in your head.

"I'm not saying a word." The tall Dutchman said, and kept his breath to make sure he wouldn't let it slip accidentally.

Canada could only look very confused. "If I said cheesy...Eeeps!" He shrieked quite loudly when his butt was shamelessly grabbed. "Don't ever do that again."

"You didn't seem to mind last ni-Ugh!" The abrupt end of that sentence was courtesy of Canada's elbow in his stomach. "Okay, I'll be quiet."

And he was for a good while despite bouncing Icelanders with beards, two serious tearjerkers, and some,_ like, __seriously_ spilling breasts.  
"Oh, watch. This is my personal favourite." Netherlands whispered at a certain point when Austria was announced.

"Wait, if this one's your favourite, why didn't you bet on-" He paused and took another look at the singer. "...her-him-her-I'm confused!"

"Because there are quite a lot of people I know for sure would rather hack out their own teeth than vote for a transvestite."

"That's a man?!"

"Yeah, duh."

"But Conchita Wurst is-"

"An artist name. Yes. Did you think that beard was painted on?"

"Eh, I eh. Wait." Canada got his head together again. "_He_ sent this in?" He nodded at Austria, who was standing straight up like always, hands behind his back, and just a slight smile on his lips. Wait. A smile? From him?! Okay, maybe he had sent in a man in drag. Though it was still hard to believe.

And then the bearded singer opened his mouth, and Canada understood why. The vocals were clean, powerful and perfect. The entire room was silenced within a matter of seconds, and remained that way until the last note was sung. Even England and France's bickering was gone.

"That was more awesome than Prussia claims to be." Canada said softly after the final note.

"Hey! No one or nothing is more awesome than me!" The Prussian shouted from the other side of the room. "But I have to admit this lady is coming pretty close." He mumbled. "But don't ever say that again, Matts!"

"I'll try."

"Yuch. By the way. You do know Wurst means sausage, right?" He teased.

"Why?"

"Obviously this lady has one. Good luck with that mental image, Matts."

"Geez, thanks Gil."

There was a bigger shocker than that waiting for him, though. The act his papa had sent in. It was wrong in every sense of the word. Performance, looks, music, dance, lighting, and lyric wise. All...wrong. And surprisingly catchy. However irritating, it was catchy.

"Papa?" He stammered to the nation next to him. "Does this song even make sense in any way?"

"Eeeeh. Probably not. Should it?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I think my brain just broke." Canada just guessed that this was one of those many moments where it is okay to be ashamed of your parents. It could always be worse, right? Nope. They were near the end, and nothing had won from the French act. All together, most songs seemed more serious than the previous year.  
There was a song about child abuse, which did grab you at the heart and gave it a good squeeze.  
And not much later came a cliché love song. Indeed cliché, but so cheery and fun. The guy really knew how to work the crowd, and it was only a matter of seconds before-

"He is adorable." Netherlands whispered.

"And again, too young for you, gramps." Canada teased. "Eeks!" Again, he was the victim of another inconspicuous ass-grab. "My ass is not your property."

"Okay, okay. No more ass-grabbing."

"Good."

"Until we're back at the hotel." He whispered into his ear.

"Patience, bunny."

"Oh, hey. There are my folks."

And there came a calm country sort of song, with clear voices which was all quite...modest. It was modest in everything. No big show with flashing lights or bombastic vocals, and only understated black and white lighting in the shape of a landscape and the highway they were singing about. Quite typically Netherlands' personality, really.

"Why do you hate this song so much?" Canada asked when it was over.

"I don't hate it at all. There's nothing wrong with the song, and the singers are two of the best I have, but amongst the decibels of Eurovision, it's probably going to get completely mowed over." Netherlands whispered back as not to disturb the few very silent listeners.

"I don't think that's the problem here."

"Then what is?"

"Your massive inferiority complex."

Silence.

Canada looked up over his shoulder to see if maybe he'd been a little too harsh. He had, apparently, as evident by two very confused green eyes, staring off into the arena.  
"Ouch."

"Sorry." Canada said immediately and rested his head back against his boyfriend's chest.

"Dutch directness doesn't suit you, Matty."

"Yeah, I know. But you need it sometimes."

Not much later, the show was over. As to be expected, the first thing Britain and France did was what they did best: Bicker like an old married couple.

"Well, it looks like you've taken my advice from last year. No more elderly on the stage." France teased.

"As it looks like you haven't taken mine. What the bloody hell was that?!"

"Twin twin."

"I know what they're called, I still can't see how that was supposed to be actual music!"

"You only say that because it they are my boys and they've done great."

"You wish! I've heard better songs come from stoned punkers in the '70's!"

"You should know all about that. If you weren't stoned back then, you were drunk."

"Says the man who consumes a bottle of wine an evening."

"That doesn't count."

"How does wine not count as alcohol, you git?!"

While they were bickering like teenage girls, the other nations enjoyed the drinks, snacks and each other's company. Altogether, it seemed like a very successful evening. Much to Denmark's liking. He'd put so much work into it, and he'd tried to make everything perfect. And okay, maybe he just wanted to be better than Sweden last year. It seemed to work so far.

When the voting came, however, that was quickly ruined. No one really paid attention to the voting as usual, but the moment the lady from Azerbaijan announced that their 12 points would be going to the twin sisters from Russia, it seemed like almost the entire audience resorted to loud booing and whistling.

"_Lort_." Denmark hissed under his breath, and went to the other end of the room to shout into his phone. "What the heck is going on?! Yes, I can hear that loud and clear, thank you."

He rubbed his brow, ran a hand through his hair and listened to the person he was calling. "Perfect. Buy yourself a lollipop to celebrate. I don't care. Make them stop."

Again, he listened.

"I don't know either. I'm not an expert, but let them leave those girls alone!"

Another moment of listening, which didn't last long as this time, the Dane clearly cut off the person on the other side. "They're fucking 17! They're kids."

Not much later, when more points were announced, there was the booing again.

"Ugh. What does it take for people to relax and leave the political shit they don't understand outside. My. Arena!"

And that was Norway's cue, apparently. He knew and recognised his fellow Nordic's rare anger-outbursts, and this was about to become one. And of all nations, he knew how dangerous those could be. Before he could snap, Norway took away Denmark's phone and hung up.

"Nor, give that back!"

"There's nothing you or the organisation can do. They can't just cancel the show without starting a riot."

"Fine. Now give that back-" Denmark tried to snatch his mobile back, but he was a little too slow.

All but impressed, Norway dropped the thing into a glass of beer. "Now calm your ass down. Sorry about your beer, Sve. I'll get you another one." He left immediately to keep that promise, leaving Denmark behind in a state of anger and confusion. The confusion overruled, though, and he started to realise that indeed, there was nothing he could do. There was nothing to do other than watching the voting. They usually didn't, but Denmark kept a close eye to know what exactly was going on. No one else really watched with him, because voting took long and was quite tedious.

"You okay?" Netherlands asked, taking a sip of beer and handing his friend a glass as well.

"Yeah. Can I borrow your phone?"

"What for?"

"Nothing, just a quick text."

"Sure." He handed Denmark his work phone, and got it back only ten seconds later. Just to be sure, he checked the last text, and it was to the organisation, apparently, telling them to cancel the entire show if things were about to escalate. "Aren't you thinking gloom and doom here?"

"Maybe, but it's just in case. I mean it would suck if I had to cut it off here, but if that's what it takes to keep the peace."

"True. By the way."

"Hm?"

Netherlands hung an arm around Denmark's shoulder. "Looks like you're going to lose the bet so far. Hungary is on number 1."

"Yeah, right. Watch it, beanstalk. You're not winning a bet from me."

"Looks like I am."

From a distance, Canada shook his head.

"That's the Porcupine-pair for you." Belgium said.

"Has Abel ever even won a bet?"

Belgium took a few seconds to think. "A few times. He's better at losing them, though."

"Any idea what he's up to this year?"

"They are good at keeping that a secret, and they hardly do anything twice."

"So no streaking Mathias this year?"

"Hopefully not. That image is still burned into my brain, and I've tried everything from brain-bleach to a flame-thrower."

That choice of words was quite unusual for Belgium. She was usually a quite sophisticated and happy lady. But now, after a few beers, she seemed all the more similar to her elder brother instead of her younger.

Instead of joining in with the other countries, Denmark stayed in his spot at the window. Things seemed to have calmed down a little and the hosts were dealing with things like a pro, but he still wasn't quite reassured. Not to worry this time, it seemed, as a 12 points went to the Common Linnets. That announcement came with the man putting on a very familiar cowboy hat.

"Wait, how are they scoring people's 12 points?" Netherlands asked.

"Maybe because the song is good, and the context doesn't matter that much after all." Canada said. "I wouldn't be surprised if they got first."

"That's overdoing it, Matty."

"I don't know. They're getting another 12."

"How?"

"I think that's what they're wondering as well." Denmark chuckled. "Look at them."

It seemed like a miracle had happened: The most hopeless Eurovision country in history was now in second place. Only when all final scores were published, the others joined in again and the winner was announced: Conchita Wurst, from Austria.

No one had ever thought they'd ever see it, but Austria was actually cheering. The one man who never broke his serious composure was cheering, jumping and clapping. Wow.

"Poor dear looks like she's about to have a heart attack." Denmark blurted out.

"I know I would." Netherlands chuckled. "Especially when strapped into a dress that tight."

"Yeah, speaking of which:" Denmark gave the darkest chuckle after that. "See you tomorrow around 12. I won't have rolled out of my bed before that time."

"Oh, fuck me."

"I'd love to."

"No way in hell." Netherlands shivered visibly. "Anyway, since we both lost. I guess it's time for a refreshment."

"Yeah, you bet." Denmark's good mood was now nowhere to be found. He looked quite uncomfortable, like he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. "One problem though. Since I was quite sure there'd be only one loser, that being you, I've only got one of those." He whipped a piece of neon-pink something out of his pocket. It was too much folded up for Canada to see what it was, but it was neon pink. That was never good.

"You're such an idiot."

"I'm just a positive thinker. And everyone is staring."

Indeed, everyone was now gathered around their host and his best friend to see what they were up to this year. "So you both lost the same bet?" Belgium asked.

"Yeah."

"Idiots."

Netherlands sighed.

* * *

Just minutes later, the two friends were right outside the building, Netherlands dressed in nothing but a neon-pink speedo, and Denmark butt-ass naked. Both were shivering and clattering their teeth to at least keep a bit warm, but it didn't make much of a difference in the 5 degrees Celsius and a very cold wind.

"Wh-wh-why did I-" Denmark started jumping to get a little warmer. "-let you have the one and only item of clothing? I went naked last year too."

"B-b-b-because...you're a massive retard and your said it yourself...Naked is less humiliating than th-th-this thing."

By now every one of the other nations had gathered in front of the window to see what was about to happen. Every one of them except for Norway and Canada. They were waiting at the wharf, about 100 metres away from the arena. They were fully clothed, unlike their boyfriends.

"Why are we here again?" Canada asked.

"Someone has to fish the corpses out." Norway replied flatly. "Ah, there they come."

"Oh, boy."

The two friends were in a race against each other to get to the water as quickly as possible. Because that was what they'd agreed. Taking a dive in the cold salty water, right then and there, in a pink speedo. And since they only had one of those, Denmark was forced to get naked again. They were running like mad, until Denmark made an emergency stop, right before falling over the edge. Netherlands stopped as well.

"Wait, what if my things freeze off?!" Denmark asked.

Not only Netherlands, but also Norway rolled his eyes. "Get in." Netherlands grumbled, right at the moment he and Norway each grabbed one of his arms and hurled him far over the edge. With a rather failing dive and a loud shriek, that year's Eurovision host went into the water. He popped up almost immediately, coughing and spitting. "Oh, my fucking god! It's so cold! Aaaargh! I'm freezing."

After getting a somewhat threatening look from Norway and Canada, the other half of the Porcupine-pair stopped laughing.  
"Don't be a baby!" He shouted before diving in as well. He soon regretted showing so much balls. "Aaaargh! Fucking hell, this is so cold! What the hell was I thinking?! I can't feel my toes! Aaaaah!" He shouted and shrieked.

"Who's being a baby now?" Denmark stuttered through shivers.

"You." Netherlands gave him a good splash of water to the face, just to get one back immediately after. The two kept splashing water at each other like little kids, and for the first time in history, people saw Norway laughing like a hyena, and even crying.

"Norway? You alright?" Denmark asked.

"Dahahahah! Shut it, Dane!" He shouted through laughing himself to death. "You should see yourself! You're such a wuss."

"Matty?" Netherlands asked. "Can you get me out?"

"Why? He's right. This is rather amusing."

"Something is starting to freeze off." Netherlands deadpanned.

"You know I don't mind topping."

Splash.

"Okay, I'm out." Canada turned to walk away, but Netherlands jumped up out the water and pulled him in. The North-American nation swam back to the surface, coughing and kicking. While he was glad the water wasn't even that cold (granted, to his arctic standards), he didn't quite appreciate being thrown into the sea. "You are a dead man."

"We'll see about that." Netherlands sniggered, right before getting pushed under water. Only briefly, because he escaped, and splashed Canada in the face again. While they were trying to fight each other with salt water splashing, Denmark clung to the side. "Aleks? _Min skat,_can you help me out?"

"No." Norway simply said and walked away.

"Oh, come on! Aleks! Come back! Help me out! Don't go away!" No reaction. Then it was time for plan B, since Norway really had no intention of helping either of them out. "I really didn't want to use this, but...SWEDEN! Help!"

And in a very relaxed tempo came the tall blonde Scandinavian from the building, closely followed by Finland.  
Finland carefully helped Canada out while Sweden grabbed Netherlands by the arm and Denmark by the hair to drag them out that way.

"Thanks, Ber." Netherlands said, and shook the water out of his hair. "I owe you one."

"Ey, Sve. Thanks for the rescue!" Denmark made his move to give him a hug, but the response that got was a push back into the very cold water.

"Whaahaaaah! Coooold! Help me out! Help me out! Help me oooout!" He shrieked.

* * *

The next day, Denmark was lying in his bed with a massive cold and holding Norway by his side as a life-size hot pack. It was a few minutes to twelve, so it was about time for-

Three knocks on his bedroom door.

"Ah, that must be the housemaid. Come in!"

"Fuck you, Køhler."

"Good morning to you, too Abel." The Dane greeted. "How's your uniform?"

"You've made it too tight at the shoulders, you jealous little twat." Netherlands complained, plucking at the frills at the bottom of his petty coat skirt. His knee-length, black maid-dress, complete with poofy sleeves, lace headpiece and white frilly apron was custom made for him, but it seemed like Denmark hadn't been so precise with the measurements. To finish it off, he had frilly white socks and shiny black heels with bows. Size 49.

"You can start with cleaning the kitchen, because everyone knows you've got an OCD for that." Denmark commanded.

Netherlands left the room grumbling.

"What was the last time you cleaned up there, or even done the dishes?" Norway asked.

"Last time you were here."

"Which is-"

"AAAAAAARGH!" Came a high-pitched scream from the kitchen. "Mat! You're a fucking disgusting swine! There's mould in here! And rats! _Rats!_ How the fuck can you live with this?!"

"About three months ago?" Denmark guessed, right before getting a pillow slammed into his face.

~o~o~o~

Please, please, PLEASE don't start a shit-storm on my fic? Please?

Lort = Shit.

Min skat = My sweetheart. (Literally: My treasure)

**Please review?**


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